


This Time It's Personal

by believeinsh2012



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Charles Augustus Magnussen - Freeform, Drama, Feels, Gen, Hints of Johnlock - Freeform, Revenge for Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:04:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeinsh2012/pseuds/believeinsh2012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary is dead. John is definitely still not over it, and Sherlock feels the need to sort the situation out and get his best friend back on track....</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time It's Personal

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a Sherlock Fan Fic Secret Santa 2013 on the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum - http://www.bbcsherlock.com
> 
> It was written before Series 3 aired.

He didn't talk about it. Not to his psychiatrist, not to any of his old army pals, nor Stamford or his colleagues from work, not to Mrs Hudson, not even to Sherlock - his best friend. 

The death of Mary had affected John Watson deeply and it had become intolerable for the consulting detective to witness his continual suffering any longer. Sympathy didn't come easily for Sherlock, but he'd been fond of Mary more so than any of John's previous women. She'd had a bit of something about her. Mildly intelligent, decent sense of humour, could throw a good punch when required. She'd come in handy on more than three occasions when he'd dragged her along on cases with John and at one point the three of them had made a rather excellent team so her death, or rather, her murder, hadn't been easy for Sherlock either. 

It played on his mind quite a bit, wondering if there was anything he could have done differently. Perhaps there was an alternate decision or deduction, another direction they might have taken on the case that would have led to a happier, more successful outcome. It was all 'what ifs' and 'maybes', he would never know for certain. 

One thing he did know though, was this couldn't continue. He couldn't sit back and watch John moping through his life, forcing himself out to work every day, struggling on and trying to pretend he was fine whilst at the same time saying he wasn't ready to return to cases, with Sherlock having to half heartedly go out on his own, finding he didn't have the same enthusiasm for it without his trusty blogger by his side. He wasn't ashamed to admit they both needed each other and they both needed the work. Not the dull nine to five at the surgery John was trying to convince himself he enjoyed. He wasn't an army doctor because he liked dealing with old women's wheezy chests. He was an army doctor because he liked adventure, craved danger and the thrill of the chase just as much as Sherlock did.

He'd tried to tempt John out with high society art thefts, a missing bride, a couple of decent murders, even a false rape accusation where he had to prove the man innocent by sifting through a variety of used condoms and testing them. He imagined John would have some glib remark about the detective's lack of experience in the area but not even that brought out his friend's unique sense of humour. He needed something else, something better, something that John wouldn't be able to refuse.

He knew what it was all along, of course. He knew exactly what it was, he was just trying to avoid thinking about it, because thinking about it meant having to admit he'd failed, and to face up to and deal with his own failure. 

Mary's killer was still out there. 

He'd made a run for it immediately after he took the shot. Sherlock and John had been too caught up in attempting to keep her alive until the ambulance got there to even notice or care where he'd gone. 'I'll get him later', Sherlock had said to himself. But he never did. He didn't even know the man's name. That was the worst thing. He didn't know where to start. 

He did know one thing though. The man almost certainly worked for Charles Augustus Magnussen. That's who they'd been tangling with at the time of her death, a master blackmailer and a general nasty piece of work one wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of. He was still out there too, but Sherlock didn't expect to get his hands on Magnussen right away. He'd have to play the long game for that result. The henchman however, was attainable, and two months after Mary's death, it was finally time to put his promises into actions. They would find him and call him to account for his crimes.

Without discussing any of his plans with John, Sherlock put the word out amongst his Homeless Network and trusted criminal insiders, giving an extremely detailed and accurate description of the killer. He might not know the man's name, but he knew an awful lot about him otherwise. Five foot nine inches tall, size eight feet, right handed, short black hair, green eyes, thick eyebrows, history of military service, Welsh origin, Manchester accent, small scar on the chin, one earlobe slightly longer than the other and at the time of the incident he was wearing a black leather jacket cut just below the waist, an off white shirt, dark blue jeans and a pair of black lace up ankle boots. 

Within a week, Sherlock had heard back about him. His name was Craig Lowry and he worked mainly as a freelance hitman as well as pursuing other interests in credit card fraud and petty theft. He called in a favour at Scotland Yard and discovered Lowry had a criminal record too, and a registered address - that was always handy. He compiled everything together in a folder with Lowry's mugshot on the front, slapping it down on the kitchen table as John was just sitting to eat his evening meal having returned from work.

The fork paused halfway to his mouth, his eyes staring intently at the picture. Of course he recognised him. How could he not? It was the face of his wife's killer, not something he was ever likely to forget.

"What...what's this?" He asked, looking up at Sherlock and trying to keep his voice steady. He managed to get the fork of wobbling peas into his mouth although suddenly he didn't have much of an appetite anymore.

"His name's Craig Lowry," Sherlock told him matter of factly. "I have his address."

The chair legs scraped loudly across the floor as John stood up, already making a move to cross from the kitchen into the living room and grab his coat. 

Sherlock stopped him in the partition and put a hand on his chest."What are you going to do?"

"Well. Kill him sprang to mind, but I suppose all of a sudden you're going to get all moralistic on me, Sherlock, and say 'you're better than that' or 'we shouldn't sink to his level'."

"Mm," Sherlock cocked his head slightly. A small twitching of his lips into a smirk. "Sprang to mind."

"I suppose you have a plan," John sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging as he turned back into the kitchen, slumping into the chair and staring down at his untouched meal.

"Haven't really thought that far ahead," admitted Sherlock. "Just wanted to get a reaction out of you and knew this would do it."

"Great. You have your reaction. Perfect," muttered John sarcastically, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork.

"The problem will be trying to charge him. There's no proof he killed Mary. Just you and I saw him. Our word against his. No actual concrete evidence unless we can trace the bullet back to his gun."

"And can we?" John looked up, a little more interested now that Sherlock was giving him something solid to go on.

"Well. We'd have to see his gun, wouldn't we?" Sherlock flashed him a quick, mischievous smile. "What day is it?"

"Uh, what?"

"What day is it?"

"You don't know what day it is?" John gave a snort.

"Just answer the question," Sherlock sighed.

"Tuesday."

"Oh really? What luck. He plays for the local darts team on Tuesday nights, he won't be in."

"You knew it was Tuesday anyway, didn't you?" John narrowed his eyes.

"Just get your coat, John. And no saying you've got a headache and can't come. That really gets on my nerves. Poorest excuse ever."

"Alright, alright, keep your curls on." 

"Ugh, what does that even mean?" Sherlock rolled his eyes as he slipped on his long Belstaff, secretly delighting in the fact that he and John were engaging in friendly banter together again, something they hadn't done in a long while.

Within ten minutes, they were in the back of an expertly hailed taxi and heading to Craig Lowry's address in North London. 

As expected, there were no lights on in the ground floor flat and no indication that anyone was home. Sherlock silently thanked his reliable informants and leapt out of the cab without paying. Finding himself left behind with a fare to sort out, John swore and muttered under his breath, fishing into his pockets to find a crumpled tenner. Some things just never change.

"Don't suppose you've got a key, have you?" He quipped, catching up with the detective at the front door.

"Nope. But that's never bothered me before." Sherlock already had his tool roll out and withdrew two thin metal rods he used for lock picking, expertly and swiftly diving in, his face a picture of calm concentration. John anxiously stood with his back to the door, trying to shield Sherlock from view of anyone who might be looking and just thankful it was a quiet street. 

After what seemed like an eternity but in reality was probably only a minute or two, there was a soft click as the door clicked open and Sherlock gave a triumphant "yesss" in a hushed whisper, stepping into the darkened flat. John quickly followed, silently closing the door behind them with a final glance out onto the street. 

"What now?" John hissed, checking his watch and wondering how long they had before the guy got back.

"Find his gun." Sherlock stalked through the hall and into the living room, immediately beginning to open up drawers and sift around. "Try and keep things tidy."

John nodded and joined in the search, the pair of them rifling through Lowry's things until it was John who came up with the goods, finding the small handgun stashed behind a volume of British Birds stacked on the shelf.  
"Got it!" He spun round to find Sherlock had become distracted by a collection of documents he was currently reading. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Sherlock answered, promptly folding up the papers and stuffing them into his pocket. "Let's go."

"Wait, what have you just pinched?" John chased after the lanky detective who was hastily darting out of the front door.

"They're planning something."

"Who are?"

"TAXI!" Sherlock flung his arm into the air then opened the door as the cab pulled up. "Scotland Yard, please."

***

"Listen, Sherlock, if you broke into the man's property and stole his bloody gun, then I can't use this as evidence in court," Lestrade was explaining apologetically, almost wincing as he said it. "You know that as well as I do. It just won't stand up. There's not much I can do."

"Just sort out the ballistics report, Lestrade, we'll take care of everything else," Sherlock assured him calmly. "And come round to Baker Street Saturday morning at 6am."

John raised his eyebrows, wondering why the heck Sherlock wanted Lestrade over at 6am on a Saturday morning but saying nothing for the time being until they were in another taxi heading home.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on, or just keep everything to your bloody self again?"

Sherlock grinned and pulled out the documents from his pocket.  
"Look at these, John." He straightened them out and shuffled up a little closer to his friend so they could both look at what he held in his hands.

"It's...it's...some kind of map," John frowned, squinting at the intricate, detailed drawings depicting various rooms, doors and windows inside an unnamed building.

"Floor plan," Sherlock nodded. 

"To what?"

"Post office on Wigmore Street."

"How on earth do you know that?" John looked at him in amazement.

"Nothing exciting, John. I've seen these plans before. I helped design the security system."

"You did?" 

"Yes. Don't look so impressed. It was a favour for an old Uni friend of mine."

"You had a Uni friend?" John gave him a sceptical smirk. "Not that Sebastian guy?"

"No," Sherlock sighed. "Someone else. Guy named Victor."

"OK so...they're planning to rob the post office?"

"Yep. Saturday at 7:30am." He pointed to the plans where the date and time had been written in an untidy scrawl underneath.  
"These aren't the latest versions though. The most up to date plans are in the safe at...at Baker Street."

John followed Sherlock's gaze and saw immediately what had caught his attention and caused the hesitation in his sentence. The taxi had turned onto Baker Street but was unable to get any closer to their flat due to a police cordon and two vans blocking up the road, the attention focused around Speedy's and 221B. 

"What's happened?" John shoved the driver some money and jumped out of the cab, shortly followed by Sherlock, the two of them racing up to the door and ignoring any protests by the police to stay back.

Sherlock pounded up the stairs whilst John got caught up in tending to a distressed Mrs Hudson who was wrapped in a shock blanket and wringing her hands, a kindly policewoman attempting to calm her down.

The devastation of their upstairs rooms was quite profound. The walls blackened, furniture covered in dust, the bookshelf upended, windows shattered and glass all over the floor. The place was even more of a mess than it usually was. Having dived over to his violin to confirm it was still in tact, Sherlock easily located the source of the bomb blast - their small safe, busted wide open, papers and documents missing.

Having made sure Mrs Hudson was getting taken care of, John joined his friend in the living room, gazing round in dismay.

"Look," Sherlock pointed at the empty safe. "What was I telling you about in the taxi?"

"You think this is them? Er...Craig Lowry and his cronies?"

"Of course it is. They've got a big job on Saturday and they wanted to get their hands on the most up to date security and floor plans."

"They must have known we were out."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Which means they've been watching the house." Then he threw himself to the floor in a rather dramatic fashion, getting out his magnifier to examine a dusty half footprint. 

"What is it?" John asked, crouching down beside him. 

"Size five Doc Martins, woman's. She smokes Marlboro menthols and wears a very specific brand of Southern Italian perfume. Difficult to get hold of over here."  
He reached out his hand and picked something tiny up off the floor, holding it to his nose and sniffing vigorously. "Enjoys Mexican food."

"How can you possibly tell that?" John laughed. "The food part, I mean."

Sherlock grinned and held the unknown item out on his palm.  
"This is a piece of mince from a quesidilla. When was the last time we had one of those?"

"Um...I don't even know what it is so...never."

"Right, exactly," the detective chuckled, getting to his feet and wandering over to the broken windows, leaving John to look on impressed.

"So, we're looking for a woman who wears size five Doc Martins and - "

"And she's five foot three and came in from this window right here."

"She did?" John rushed to Sherlock's side. "How did she manage that? Scaled the wall?"

"Nope. Nothing as exciting. They had a ladder. Marks here and here, see." He pointed them out with an index finger.

"So, someone just put a ladder against our window and climbed in, without anyone even noticing?"

"It's night time, quiet stretch of the road," Sherlock shrugged. "Either way, it's likely she was dressed as a worksperson for extra cover. No one would have even noticed her and - "  
He stopped dead, eyes sparkling, an idea clearly formulating. John looked at him expectantly.

"What?"

"I know a man who would have noticed."

***

Mycroft Holmes didn't look any more pleased to see his brother than Sherlock did, the pair of them exchanging sarcastic pleasantries with the fakest of smiles much to John's amusement. He knew better than anyone that much of their apparent bitterness and rivalry was put on for effect, almost like a game that they both deeply enjoyed playing. 

And Sherlock was absolutely right, of course. The elder Holmes did have access to most of London's CCTV cameras including one that had now been permanently trained on 221B Baker Street at his bequest.

Zooming in on the grainy images, it was easy to see the ladder up against their window, being held firmly in place by a man at the bottom whilst the smaller, agile woman clambered up and smashed the glass of their window. The man looked nervously over his shoulder to check whether the sound had attracted any attention.

"I'm surprised Mrs Hudson didn't hear anything," John said.

"You know what she's like, telly on too loud," Sherlock tutted. "I keep telling her to get a hearing aid, she won't listen."

"Wait, zoom in some more on the guy holding the ladder," John pointed at the screen, squinting his eyes to try and see better.

Mycroft moved the mouse, selected the area and double clicked. A clearer picture of the man's face emerged on the screen.

"I thought so," said John. "It's him."

"Craig Lowry."

"Little bastard."

"Like I said, they wanted the plans," Sherlock shrugged. "Although I'd love to know how they managed to blow up the safe without injuring themselves."

"Tut tut, Sherlock," Mycroft chuckled, greatly amused by this. "The woman you're looking at is Maria Lapoza. Expert safe cracker."

"Of course," cried the detective with a hint of annoyance, hating being outdone by his older brother. "She cracked the safe, took the documents then they set the bomb off remotely."

"Why would they do that?" John asked.

"A message, a warning. If they've been watching us as I suspect they have, they're likely to know I've been investigating Lowry."

"What are we going to do?"

"Nothing. The plan doesn't change. We keep a low profile till Saturday. They know I'll notice the documents are missing. I think they want me to try and stop them."

"Why would they want that?"

"We're going to have to be very careful, John," said Sherlock darkly. "We've interfered with Magnussen's plans for too long now. He's getting tired of us."

"One of your 'trusted' criminal contacts, perhaps?" Mycroft smirked.

"You think Lowry knew we'd go to his house?" John asked. "That you'd find out about the post office job?"

"I think so," Sherlock confirmed with a small nod, his eyes glimmering with excitement.

***

The next four days were difficult and fraught with tension. Not only did they have to put up with living in a half bombed out flat that never seemed to look any better no matter how much tidying and cleaning was done, there was also the anticipation of what was to come at the weekend, the likely probability that they were willingly walking into a trap. Sherlock wasn't much of a help with anything, cleverly avoiding the clean up operation by spending most of his time in his room and claiming he was 'thinking', much to John's general annoyance who just wanted to get this damn thing over with and get his revenge on Mary's killer.

He'd spent a long time thinking about that himself too. He wasn't going to let him get away this time. He'd imagined pulling the trigger on his revolver, ending the man's life and not feeling an ounce of guilt over it. 

Finally the day came, and it wasn't a moment too soon for either of them.

Lestrade arrived at 6am prompt as he had been instructed and seeing the grave expression on his face as he answered the door, John knew immediately that Sherlock had most likely filled him in on the details of what they were dealing with.

"Did you do as I asked?" The detective demanded to know immediately.

John was about to offer coffee all round but Sherlock was already getting his coat on.

"Yeah, yeah, I did," answered Lestrade. "Sherlock, what are we going into here?"

"I don't know, but as long as your men are in there like I asked, we'll be fine."

***

They were met at the door by a nervous looking post office worker who quickly let the three of them inside and locked up behind them, tugging anxiously on his woolly jumper. Lestrade walked Sherlock and John round the small room, which had been prepped in advance with two police officers cramped into the storage cupboard, one crouched down beneath the counter and two others in the back office ready to run out when the time came. 

"Excellent," Sherlock nodded, pleased with the set up. "Although this one can go out the back with the other two," he pointed to the man behind the counter. "John and I will take this spot." He glanced at his friend. "Prime position wouldn't you say, John?"

"Oh yeah," John agreed. "Not going to miss any of the action there, are we?"

"You can go now," Lestrade addressed the employee. "Thanks for your help."

"No," Sherlock hurriedly interjected. "He needs to stay for the time being."

The young postal worker looked surprised.

"We need you to stand by the door and let us know when you see someone approach," he informed him. "Then you can run into the back room and stay there until we've arrested everyone."

"Um...uh...OK," he hesitantly agreed, remaining by the front door.

"Half an hour left everyone," Sherlock announced. "Let's all get into position and wait, in case they're early. No talking." He grabbed John and yanked him down to sit on the floor behind the counter, immediately wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close to whisper in his ear.

"We have an imposter in our midsts."

"What? Who?"

"Keep your voice down?" hissed Sherlock.

"Alright," John dropped to a whisper. "Who?"

"The postal worker. He's not a real postal worker, he's one of the gang."

"How do you know?"

"Look at him." He twisted round and got on his knees, edging up a little higher so he was just peeping over the top of the counter, looking across the room at the young man waiting by the door. John did the same.

"Well?"

"Can't you see it, John?"

"See what?"

"Oh for God's sake. His jumper. It's a size too small and a shade lighter than the standard Royal Mail issue. The badge has been bought separately and sewed on rather crudely and he's got a nasty mark on the side of his neck where its rubbed and irritated him because he's not used to wearing it. Aside from that,  
there's his trousers."

"His trousers?"

"Yes, just an ordinary pair of black jeans. But it's his pockets I'm interested in more than anything, John, his right pocket in particular."

John dropped his eyeline from the jumper to the young man's right pocket, now noticing for the first time that he was carrying something in it, the outline of some unknown object.

"Too large to be keys or chains,” continued Sherlock. “Could be a phone but it's the wrong shape. Do you see it now?"

"It's...he's...he's got a gun."

"Exactly. How many armed postal workers do you know in London?"

"What are we going to do?" John asked as they slumped back down to face the wall, giving up their deductions for the time being. Sherlock didn't answer. He had his palms placed firmly together under his chin and was muttering quietly and quickly to himself, thinking aloud. John was just about able to make out a few words here and there.

"He was expecting to be able to leave when we got here....he's nervous, why is he nervous, room full of police, bound to make him a bit nervous...what is he doing here anyway, why do they need him...to let them in when they all arrive...but if he was planning to leave then that's not why he's here so why, why..."

"Um...Sherlock..." John hated to interrupt when his friend was working things through in his head but he'd spotted something that could be of importance.

"Not now, John."

"Sherlock. You need to see this."

"What?" He snapped impatiently, still wary to keep his voice down low. "What is it?"

"There's some kind of wire coming out of that till."

Sherlock followed John's gaze, his eyes widening.  
"That's it. That's it, John, you are a genius!"

"Oh, don't give me all that," he grumbled. "Just tell me. Are we...y'know...sat next to a bomb?"

Sherlock nodded. "That's why he wanted to get out, John. In fact, that's why he's here in the first place. He probably has a device in his pocket to detonate the blast once he's far enough away to avoid it. There was never any robbery planned. They wanted to get us here so they could blow us all up. Brilliant."

"Sherlock...."

"Ohhh, what a plan."

"Sherlock! We need. To do. Something."

"Alright. Mr Postman over there has the detonator. If we alert him to the fact that we know he'll make a run for it and press the big red button. We need to apprehend him swiftly."

"Leave that to me." Within seconds, John had whipped out his gun from the waistband of his jeans and was standing up, vaulting over the counter towards the surprised gang member.

The young man lifted up the bottom hem of his jumper and fumbled to take his own weapon out of his pocket, but John had the advantage with the element of surprise and was already in control of the situation.

"No," he warned him calmly but firmly. "Just stop right there."

Sherlock vaulted dramatically over the counter too, his coat billowing up into the air, elegantly landing on his feet and joining John to apprehend the suspect.  
"Lestrade!" He called for the Inspector as he grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him forwards against the door. 

John took the man's hands and yanked them round his back, holding him in place until Lestrade and the other officers emerged from their hiding places.

"What's going on?" The detective Inspector wanted to know.

"This man's an armed criminal and there's a bomb in here," Sherlock explained succinctly as John delved into the man's pockets and drew out the firearm.

"Jesus bloody Christ," Lestrade swore then began taking control of the situation, ordering one of the officers to slap on a pair of cuffs before ushering everyone outside onto the street where the detonator was confiscated and a bomb disposal unit called for.

Despite the success of the operation, Sherlock felt bitterly disappointed. They hadn't got their man. Chances were he was never intending to show in the first place. This entire thing had been for nothing.

John, however, wasn't about to let one small setback stop him. Sherlock had stoked a new enthusiasm in him, a new fire, a new desire, and he wouldn't rest until he saw justice done. Just as two officers were about to get the young man into the back of a police vehicle, he approached for a quick word.

"Where's Lowry?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Craig Lowry," John repeated the name clearly. "Where is he?"

"Answer the question," Sherlock came up behind John's shoulder, glowering at the man.

"I don't have to answer nothing," he spat, turning quite nasty as he struggled against the hold the two officers had on either arm.

"Well then, I suppose you won't be needing this in custody," said Sherlock, calmly plucking the man's phone from his pocket before turning and walking away. "Don't worry, I'll only need it a second," he assured the older policeman, who was already beginning to protest about his appropriation of potential evidence. "Oh look...you have Lowry's number, what a surprise. And someone called CAM, how interesting. And oh yes, here we go..." He scrolled through the phone then showed it to John. "The last address he searched for using his GPS map. It's an old warehouse off Edgware Road. I know it."

He handed the phone back and strode off, John falling into line beside him in a good mood, feeling like they were getting somewhere again.

Sherlock flashed him a quick smile and led the way to the main road for a taxi.

***

The warehouse was in a shoddy state of disrepair and it was certainly unlikely he'd be planning to come here for anything other than some kind of shady rendezvous. Despite looking unsafe and uninhabitable, there was a car parked outside, an indication that there were people in there as suspected. Sherlock ordered the taxi to drive past and they got out a couple of blocks further up to avoid attracting attention. They had the advantage this time. They had the element of surprise.

There was one major problem that Sherlock could see, however, and that John hadn't yet considered, too focused on his own personal vendetta to worry about it or to even care. They had no idea how many people were inside, and there were only two of them, and only one gun between them. 

Sherlock placed a hand on John's chest to stop him going any further as they approached the door, then raised a fist and banged on the rickety frame heavily, shouting in a loud, booming voice.  
"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. The game is up. This building is surrounded by an armed response unit. Please lay down any weapons and raise your arms in the air above your head."

He grinned at John then listened carefully, his ear to the door. Hushed voices, at least two, maybe three. Then a shout, then the sound of running feet, scrambling away from them rather than towards them, perhaps towards another exit or escape route.

Assured that there were no more than three people inside and that they were all now sufficiently shaken up and panicky, Sherlock thudded his shoulder against the door and half fell into the room.

John immediately raised the gun in the air, sidestepping in and assessing the situation. One woman running towards a door at the back. Two men hurriedly packing a large rucksack together, stuffing it full of smaller plastic bags. One of the men he immediately recognised as Lowry. The other froze for a minute, then dived towards a gun that was resting on a nearby table.

"John, look out!" Sherlock cried, spotting it first.

John let off a single shot from his own weapon and hit the man in the leg, watching as he dropped to the floor. Sherlock raced over and grabbed the other gun, ensuring both of them were now armed and with both of their weapons now focused entirely on Craig Lowry.

"Remember us?" John asked.

"Oh yeah. The detective and his blogger, how could I forget," Lowry snorted.

"You didn't think I was going to let you get away with this, did you?"

"Away with what?"

"You know what."

Sherlock remained silent, watching the interchange between the two. This was John's moment, one he'd been waiting a long time for, and he intended to let him savour it for himself.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you might have to refresh my memory," Lowry said sarcastically.

"Oh, I'll refresh it alright," John muttered, dropping his gun on the floor and approaching him unarmed, thudding a fist into the man's face. He had an impressive right hook when he wanted to and Lowry was caught off guard, staggering back and onto the floor. In an instant, John was on top of him, sitting on his chest and pinning him down with a leg either side. 

He raised his fist again, bringing it crashing into Lowry's cheek and hearing the crack of bone.  
"Feeling refreshed yet?"

"Yeahhhh," Lowry spat out some blood and blinked up at John, sneering. "I remember now. I shot your slut of a wife."

That was the point where John lost it. He punched him again, and again, his knuckles making a satisfied thwacking noise and burning up as they were brought into contact with Lowry's increasingly bloody and battered face. He wasn't sure how many times he hit him, or how long it went on for. It was almost like a switch had been turned off and he wasn't even self aware anymore, wasn't even thinking. All he knew was, at some point he felt strong arms around him, pulling him off and hauling him back to his feet.

"I think that's enough, John," came Sherlock's low growl in his ear. "I've called Lestrade, police are on their way."

John, out of breath and exhausted from his onslaught, leant his hands on his knees to calm himself down, his heartbeat raging in his ears as he surveyed the mess he had made of Lowry's face. He felt no pity or remorse for the man, but was glad Sherlock had pulled him off when he did, otherwise he most likely would have continued until he'd killed him.

"Feel better?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh yeah," John confirmed. "That felt bloody good." 

Sherlock smirked and clapped him on the back.

"Have we got enough to convict him though?" John asked, a little worried as he heard the sound of sirens getting closer.

"Yep. Even if we can't connect him to either of the bomb blasts, we did just find a hoarde of stolen and fake credit cards."

"We did?"

Sherlock nodded and picked up one of the plastic bags they'd been so desperate to pack before the 'police' burst in, turning it upside down and emptying the contents onto the floor - a dozen or so credit cards dropped into a heap.  
"This alone will warrant a search of his property, thereby validating the ballistics report and proving he was the one who killed Mary." 

John grinned broadly. It was the happiest Sherlock had seen him look in months and in that instant he felt prouder and more satisfied than any of his previous successes put together. To be able to bring a smile back to his friend's face, a warm, genuine smile, was worth more than he could put into words, more than he could even understand.

"Thank you," John nodded at him.

"Don't mention it."

"No, I want to mention it." He approached Sherlock and looked up into his eyes, holding the gaze for a moment. "Thank you."

There was a small pause, a silence. Sherlock didn't quite know what to say, how to formulate an appropriate response to John's gratefulness. Being polite was probably the key here, he thought to himself.

"Thank you too," he replied, offering out his hand rather formally for a shake. "It's been an enjoyable case for me."

John looked at Sherlock's hand. "What's all this," he laughed, clasping his own hand around Sherlock's then immediately pulling him towards him. "Give us a bloody hug, you sod," he mumbled, throwing his arms around Sherlock's waist and clinging to his back. "Been friends for this long I'm not gonna shake your hand like we've just done a business exchange."

"Right." Sherlock's own arms remained stuck out awkwardly for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. Then slowly, he returned the embrace, looping one arm under John's left shoulder and the other over the top of his right, hugging him silently.

It was the first time they had ever done such a thing and, for a brief moment, Sherlock wondered why they had never done so before. It didn't feel strange or odd or invasive of his personal space or even over sentimentalised. It felt perfectly natural, just right.  
"Come on," he said eventually, patting John between his shoulder blades then stepping back away from the hug. "Let's go home."

The police were arriving as they got to the door and their job there was done. Lestrade was full of demanding questions, wanting to know what had happened and what was going on, telling Sherlock he needed to make a statement. 

"I'll explain everything tomorrow," he assured him, managing to successfully avoid having to hang around any longer. Right now, he had something more important to do. He needed to take his best friend for dinner.


End file.
